


"sleep with" is a stupid idiom

by seventhstar



Series: yuuri, please [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Human Disaster Katsuki Yuuri, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Viktor "Sleeping" With Yuuri, Viktor Sleeping With Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 13:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11692653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: In one universe, Viktor asks Yuuri to sleep with him on his first night in Hasetsu and gets rejected.In another, he doesn't. This happens instead.





	"sleep with" is a stupid idiom

**Author's Note:**

> my thanks to [renaissance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance) for the beta!

“Yuuri, let’s sleep together!”

Yuuri opens his mouth to say, “No,” but Yuuri’s mouth, like his hands, and his dick, is traitorous. It says, “Sure,” without any input from his brain, and his hands yank the door open, and then Viktor is in his room.

His room. With his twenty four posters. With the framed photo of Viktor at the bedside which Yuuri definitely does not masturbate to. With his laptop open to a search on YouTube for “Viktor Nikiforov Stay Close To Me HD”. Yuuri’s mind blanks, no thoughts, just internal pterodactyl screeching. Viktor looks around, tapping his lips with his index finger as he examines the nearest poster.

“I don’t remember posing for this.”

“I had it custom made from a screenshot of your free skate at the Olympics.”

“Wow, amazing!” Viktor touches the poster; Yuuri cringes, he’ll get it dirty. “Your collection is even more impressive than mine!”

 _What,_ Yuuri thinks. _What,_ Yuuri feels. Viktor is wandering around the room, jinbei slipping down his shoulders (Yuuri has worn a jinbei and has no idea how Viktor is managing that). Underneath his shoulders are broad, the muscles of his back delicious. Yuuri can see the faint flush on the back of his neck.

“So, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “Tell me everything about yourse—”

 _Fuck it,_ Yuuri decides. He doesn’t know why Viktor is here—he thinks Viktor tried to explain earlier in the onsen, but Yuuri was too busy panicking at the sight of his dick and screeching as he ran out of the room to hear—but it can’t be for long. Viktor will go back to his life, to Russia, to winning.

Yuuri should just be grateful Viktor is here now. Maybe he’s in the habit of banging someone at every hotel he stays at. Maybe he’s collecting the virtue of male figure skaters to go with his collection of gold medals, and Yuuri’s is the last name he wants to check off his list. Who knows. Who _cares._

“Why don’t you lie down.”

Viktor blinks at him, hand raised halfway to Yuuri’s face. Yuuri grabs it and leads him over to his childhood bed, pushes him down onto the covers. It’s only a twin, but they’ll have to make do. He wonders if Viktor is opposed to just fucking Yuuri on the floor. He has a yoga mat somewhere.

The jinbei has fallen down around Viktor’s elbows. Yuuri has seen Viktor’s chest—he has posters of Viktor’s chest on the walls right now—but the real thing is ten times as beautiful, with the sheen of sweat, and little patches of barely visible hair, and firm pectorals that Yuuri can actually reach out and touch.

Which he does. Viktor’s chest is rock solid.

Yuuri takes off his glasses and carefully sets them on the nightstand. Then he takes off his shirt. And his pants. And, despite a mounting feeling of doom, his boxers.

Viktor makes a strangled sort of noise. His face is red. Yuuri really hopes he’s not disappointed with Yuuri’s dick, which is already half-hard.

“Pants.”

“What?”

“Take them off.” The Viktor of Yuuri’s fantasies was never this dense, Yuuri thinks. Viktor’s the one who came to his room; does he usually have sex with his pants on?

Yuuri’s willing to work with that, but after a moment Viktor wriggles out of his remaining clothes.

He kicks the pile of green fabric aside, climbs into Viktor’s lap, and takes his face into his hands. Viktor is unfairly pretty up close, even though he just got off a plane and is still all sweaty from the onsen. It’s awful. Yuuri kisses him.

Viktor tastes like peppermint.

He is hesitant at first, palms pressed lightly against Yuuri’s back as Yuuri tries to coax his mouth open with his tongue. Yuuri grinds down in his lap, trying to get as much of his skin against Viktor’s as possible; he gets a handful of Viktor’s hair and pulls. Blunt nails dig into Yuuri’s back; Viktor licks into his mouth, their teeth clicking together, until they both topple back onto the bed.

The sight of Viktor under him, on top of the covers where Yuuri has furtively jerked off to the thought of him for literally years, is terrifying. His mouth is wet. Yuuri licks his lips, puts both hands on Viktor’s chest, bends down to kiss him more. He explores every inch of Viktor he can reach with his fingers—his collarbones, his broad shoulders, the lean muscle over his ribs, the flat planes of his stomach, an old scar that is rough under his fingertips—marveling at how real he is. He brushes over a nipple and Viktor’s hips buck up against him.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says; he sounds like he’s just been punched. He grabs a handful of Yuuri’s ass.

“You like that?”

The noise Viktor makes in response is obscene. Yuuri slides down his body until his lips are level with Viktor’s chest and gently worries one tight nipple between his teeth. He memorizes the texture of it with his tongue, reveling in Viktor writhing under him, drunk on the power he’s suddenly been handed.

He leaves soft little bites all over Viktor’s chest, sucks at both of his nipples in turn, until Viktor’s free hand slides up Yuuri’s spine and yanks on his hair.

“Please,” Viktor says. Yuuri can feel his erection against his stomach.

He can’t quite believe any of this is happening. Viktor is begging _him,_ Yuuri Katsuki. Viktor barely knows him.

“You can fuck me.”

He flips them over—Viktor is heavy, all that muscle no doubt, he must be strong to be able to do such perfect quads—and hooks his leg around Viktor’s hip, urging him on. There’s lube under the bed, and Yuuri gropes around for the bottle before shoving it at Viktor, who nearly drops it on him.

He wonders what Viktor’s problem is. Does he not want to? Is Yuuri so repulsive he’s changed his mind?

“Are you okay?”

“I’m very okay,” Viktor says immediately. He squeezes Yuuri’s thigh. “You surprise me.”

Yuuri surprises himself, too. When he woke up this morning this was not how he expected his day was going to go.

He’s gentle. He fingers Yuuri so slowly; Yuuri shifts, folded in half, thighs pulled back against his chest. He’d expected Viktor to just go for it, but Viktor seems content to make him wait, to stretch him with long, bony fingers until Yuuri is aching for it, to prep him until there’s lube dripping out of him onto the sheets. Yuuri squirms, impatient, hard.

Finally, Viktor withdraws his fingers. “Ready?”

“I was ready like ten minutes ago.” Yuuri’s been ready for the past seven years.

Viktor laughs. It’s a totally alien noise, even though Yuuri has heard Viktor laugh plenty of times, in interviews and while spying on him at Worlds and in Instagram videos of him at practice. It’s kind of an ugly laugh.

Yuuri opens his mouth to tell Viktor to get on with it, and Viktor shoves his cock into him before he can.

“Come on,” Yuuri says, as Viktor starts to move with the same unbearable slowness. “Give it to me, Viktor, fuck me harder, what the hell—”

“You’re so impatient,” Viktor says. Yuuri opens his mouth to explain that if Viktor doesn’t fuck him he’ll probably die of wanting, but Viktor kisses him before he can get out more than a syllable.

Then he fucks into Yuuri so hard that the bed rattles, and Yuuri, clinging to him, thinks that having sex with Viktor Nikiforov so hard it breaks the furniture is the culmination of all Yuuri’s darkest fantasies.

VIktor’s nails dig into the back of Yuuri’s knee, the meat of his shoulder. He can feel Viktor’s pulse deep inside him. Yuuri can hear himself making soft, needy noises, ones he’ll be embarrassed about later, when Viktor isn’t watching him so intently. His skin is slapping against Yuuri’s deliciously with every thrust. Viktor is exactly right, on top of him and inside him, as close to him as another human being can be. A bead of sweat drips off of Viktor’s forehead and lands on Yuuri’s cheek.

Yuuri wants to close his eyes, but he can’t. If he stops looking at Viktor, face screwed up in pleasure above him, he’s sure he’ll disappear.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. His voice is wobbling.

Stamina is supposed to be Yuuri’s strong point (his only strong point) in bed. But Viktor is looking at him, with blown pupils and wet lips, like Yuuri is the only thing in the world.

He’s coming before he knows it, scratching at Viktor’s shoulders, gasping out Viktor’s name. Viktor manages a couple aborted thrusts, and then he’s spilling hot come inside Yuuri.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”  
  
“That was…” Viktor trails off. He pulls out—Yuuri feels bereft—and gives Yuuri enough room to drop his legs. His hips hurt. He should have stretched first. “Amazing.”

“Mmm.”

Viktor is still looking at him like that.

Yuuri stares at the wall and tries to regroup. God, what the hell was he thinking, he’s been eating his feelings for months and he has stretch marks, and he hasn’t showered since yesterday. Now he can’t even dream about meeting Viktor while wearing Prada and sipping champagne. Viktor flops down on top of him, and the only benefit of this sudden, unwanted intimacy is that Viktor can’t look at him anymore. Yuuri grips the sheets, resisting the dangerous urge to pet Viktor’s back and sides, and panics.

Cuddling isn’t Yuuri’s thing; he doesn’t like that kind of intimacy with his hook ups. Granted, Viktor isn’t exactly his usual hook up—for one thing, he is way out of Yuuri’s league—but that only makes it worse: cuddling Viktor is too much like being thrust into one of his adolescent fantasies. It makes him _feel_ things.

He doesn’t want to have feelings right now, and he absolutely is not going to flee his own room to avoid Viktor like he fled his room in Detroit more than once. Viktor has a room; this is a hotel. He just has to find a way to get Viktor off him. A tactful way.

Who is he kidding?

“I need to go,” he gropes for a suitable excuse, “put the pineapple in the oven.”

“…why?” Viktor rolls over, enough that he’s not crushing Yuuri under the weight of his ridiculous musculature. This leaves Yuuri trapped between Viktor and the wall, which is less than ideal, but Yuuri is bendy and determined, he still might escape. “Stay with me. You can…bake the pineapple…in the morning.” Viktor frowns. “I think.”

Yuuri is not staying in here, with Viktor so close to him, and naked, and semen cooling between his thighs. That’s unacceptable. He’s leaving.

“Please,” Viktor says.

“Okay.”

As Yuuri hands Viktor his discarded shirt to clean himself up with, and tosses it along with a handful of tissues on the floor, and pulls up the covers over the both of them, he tells himself that as soon as Viktor is asleep, he’s leaving. And then he’s going to get a handle on this thing his mouth keeps doing where the words come out without Yuuri’s brain getting any veto power.

He’s not going to fall asleep, curled up with Viktor in his childhood twin bed like they’re lovers, lulled to sleep by the sound of Viktor’s breathing.

* * *

When Yuuri wakes up Viktor is still there.

It’s impossibly hot, between Viktor draped over him like an amorous blanket and the covers piled on top of them and the sunlight streaming in through the window. All the snow has probably melted, Yuuri thinks, mostly to avoid thinking about other things. Like Viktor’s face so close to his own, or Viktor’s arms locked around him, or Viktor’s soft, snuffling sleep noises lulling Yuuri back to sleep.

No, Yuuri cannot go back to sleep, what if Viktor wakes up and sees him? Or, god forbid, wants to talk to him?

It takes too long to pry Viktor off of him and roll onto his bedroom floor. All his posters of Viktor are watching him with mocking eyes. When this is over, Yuuri is going to burn them all.

He snatches the first set of clothing he finds and flees to the safety of the bathroom. There, staring in disbelief at himself in the mirror, he discovers the clothes he grabbed are a shirt with zombie hamsters on it that he stole from Phichit, and sweatpants that say THICC in pink glitter down the sides. Yuuri doesn’t remember buying or packing these.

Well, he can’t go down to breakfast naked, and Yuuri is not going to miss a homemade meal.

“Good night?” Mari has both eyebrows lifted when he meets her eyes.

_Please let her not have heard anything._

Yuuri applies himself studiously to his rice and natto. If he eats quickly, he can find some excuse to be away from the onsen for the rest of the day. Maybe he can even drop by the office and see how long Viktor is planning to stay, and arrange to live in Minako’s backroom until he leaves.

One night stands in his actual house are a bad idea. He’s going to have to practice celibacy while he’s in Hasetsu. Or try dating. No, celibacy it is.

“You need to eat more,” his mother says, and she heaps more rice in his bowl.

Yuuri is torn for a moment—he needs to eat less, but his mother’s cooking is so good—before digging back in. He’ll run five extra kilometers today.

“Good morning!” Viktor arrives in the dining room more disheveled than Yuuri has ever seen him. His hair is wrecked. He has dark circles under his eyes. “How are you, Yuuri?” He’s speaking Japanese; his accent is thick and frankly hilarious.

He’s still more attractive than should be _allowed._

“Fine.”

“Did you sleep well, Vicchan?” His mother asks. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a room for you last night, but Mari can clear out the banquet room for you this morning if you don’t mind.”

Mari translates this in English for Viktor while Yuuri mouths “what the fuck” at his bowl of rice. _Vicchan? Since when does she call him Vicchan?_

Thoughts of a small brown poodle come to mind. Before, when Yuuri came for breakfast, Vicchan was always at his side: padding behind him on tiny paws, eating out his bowl while Yuuri devoured his breakfast.

He can’t think about this now. Vicchan died, here, alone, while Yuuri was making a fool of himself at the Grand Prix Final. He can’t bear it.

Mari is still facilitating Viktor’s alarmingly cheerful conversation with his mother.

“She hopes you’re enjoying our family’s hospitality.”

Viktor grins, chopsticks raised halfway to his lips. “Katsuki-san, your family’s hospitality is unlike any I’ve ever experienced.”

“I’m sure,” Mari says. “Take the banquet room. The walls are thicker.”

Yuuri is so horrified by this prospect—Viktor not leaving Japan, Viktor sleeping in the banquet room that is next to Yuuri’s, his sister roasting Viktor about his sex life—that it takes him several seconds to marshal himself enough to speak.

“Why can’t he take a normal room?” he asks in Japanese.

“Weren’t you paying attention? We don’t have any normal rooms. We’re completely booked until the end of the week thanks to that corporate retreat. Viktor’s only getting the banquet room because you invited him.” Mari tips her mug of coffee towards her mouth. She swallows heavily. “Next time you decide to bring home your hot foreign boyfriend, give us some heads up.”

“But…” Yuuri has no idea how to parse the nonsense coming out of his normally sensible sister’s mouth. Viktor isn’t his boyfriend. Viktor definitely was not invited to Hasetsu by Yuuri. And if they don’t have any normal rooms, why was Viktor—

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

_Motherfucker,_ Yuuri thinks.

_He meant literally sleep together, like actually sleep in my room, and I jumped him. No wonder he looked so confused! He never wanted me at all!_

_...how often do people just randomly try to seduce him?_

_...wait, why is Viktor even here?_

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“What?”

Viktor smiles at him. Yuuri is so disarmed he can’t move. “You’re wondering where Makkachin is!”

“I—”

“Don’t worry, she’s around here somewhere. She doesn’t travel a lot, so I think she’s still exploring.” Viktor cups his hands around his mouth. “Makka!” He whistles.

A giant fluffy dog bounds through the open door, snow dusted all over her snout. Viktor holds out his arms, and she jumps into them, and Yuuri watches, stomach twisting with envy, as breakfast devolves into Viktor being licked furiously by his dog.

It must show in his expression, because Viktor cranes his head to look at him and says, softly, “Do you not like her?”

Yuuri has been accused of a lot of things, but no one could say he doesn’t love all dogs with his whole heart. “No!” He scratches Makkachin behind her ear. “I _love_ her.”

“Isn’t she a good dog?” Viktor coos over her. “The best dog?” He babbles at her in Russian, and Yuuri doesn’t really understand what he’s saying, although he suspects it’s just variations on “Who’s a good girl? You are! Yes, you are!”

“So when are you leaving?” Yuuri winces; he’s being too blunt.

“Excuse me?”

“How long are you staying? Don’t you have…” he waves a hand. “…stuff, in Russia?”

“Why would we go to Russia?”

“We?”

“You,” Viktor gestures at him, “and me.”

“I’m not going to Russia.”

“Of course you aren’t. We’ll use whatever rink is nearest.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“Is there not one locally? Chris told me that Cao Bin told him that he heard from one of your rinkmates that you trained in Japan before you went to Detroit.”

“I—what?” Yuuri shakes his head. The longer this conversation goes on, the more surreal it feels. He’s waited his entire life to speak to Viktor, so of course their first extended conversation makes no sense. “Yes, we have a local rink, but…are you going to be skating while you’re here?”

“Well, a little. I have to put together the program. And I might have to teach you jumps.”

“Teach…me jumps.”

“Yes?”

“But why?”

“Isn’t that my job as your coach?”

“My…coach.” Yuuri repeats these words, on the off chance repetition will make them less insane. “My _coach.”_

“Yes! Isn’t it great? You’re going to win the Grand Prix Final this year for sure!”

“Excuse me,” Yuuri says faintly. “I…I have to go water the seaweed.” He seizes Makkachin’s collar and starts backing out of the room, his half-eaten bowl of rice held in his other hand. If there was ever a moment to go hide in Minako’s bar’s bathroom and absolutely freak out, this is it.

* * *

“Yuuuri.” Viktor calls. “Yuuri! Where are you?”

Yuuri is hiding in a tree in the park, watching the ocean and counting the waves to soothe himself. Minako isn’t home, and the rink is too obvious, so that leaves the outdoors. If only Hasetsu weren’t so small, Yuuri thinks; sooner or later some well-meaning local is going to tell Viktor where he is. Hopefully Viktor’s terrible Japanese will impede him.

“Makkachin? Makka! Come!”

At the base of the tree, Makkachin perks up and turns her head in Viktor’s direction. Yuuri shushes her.

“Don’t tell him where I am!”

Makkachin looks directly at him. Yuuri has the distinct sense she’s judging him. Then she sits back down, curls up, and goes to sleep.

“Good dog.”

Yuuri’s been trying to figure out what the fuck is going on for about an hour. Or he thinks; he doesn’t have his phone and has no idea what time it is. So far he’s determined that Viktor is in Japan for him for some reason, based on Viktor’s willingness to hop into bed with him and his jokes (jokes?) about coaching him. And he’s also determined that it’s a good thing he didn’t try to speak to Viktor at the Grand Prix Final, because apparently Yuuri is incapable of being normal around him.

His attempts at logic are not aided by the fact he keeps getting distracted by the thought of Viktor actually coaching him. Viktor teaching him to do a quad flip. Viktor correcting his posture. Viktor telling him his spins are good.

Yuuri can’t even tell himself that would never happen, because a lot of impossible shit has happened already.

There’s a spark of hope burning in him. Not enough to start a fire, just enough to light a few new dreams.

“Yuuuri!”

Yuuri cowers against the tree as Viktor turns onto the path nearest him. Hopefully it won’t occur to Viktor to look up.

He focuses on the feel of the rough bark as Viktor comes closer. _Bugs,_ he thinks. _This tree is full of bugs. I count twenty-seven leaves. There’s a bird on that branch, watching me. I can see the top of Viktor’s head and his hair is shiny. Fuck._

“Makkachin! There you are. Do you know where Yuuri is?”

“Woof.”

“I don’t, either! Why did he run away?” Viktor sighs. He’s wearing a workout clothes—black shirt, grey yoga pants, sneakers—and has a jacket tied around his waist. He runs a hand through his hair, and then, to Yuuri’s mounting terror, sits down underneath the tree. Yuuri can see his head between his dangling legs. “Makkachin, what am I doing wrong?”

Viktor looks smaller from this angle. Sadder. More human.

Yuuri is not going to be guilted into talking to him. He’s not the one who showed up in Japan out of the blue.

 _You did leave him alone in bed this morning,_ Yuuri’s inner voice, the one who sounds like Minako, says.

He sighs deeply. _Fuck me._ He puts the now-empty bowl in a fork in the tree’s limbs for safekeeping. Then he swings down from the branch and lands heavily in the grass.

“Hi.”

Viktor jumps up and whips around so fast he actually topples over and has to grab the tree to steady himself. “Yuuri! Hi.” He looks up. “Makkachin, why didn’t you tell me he was here?”

“I asked her not to.”

“First my heart and now my dog…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Yuuri sucks in a deep breath. He needs to just figure out what’s going on, so he can make it stop. This is too much. It’s too confusing. Seeing Viktor in person makes Yuuri remember they were fucking less than twenty-four hours ago. “Viktor, why are you here?”

“I told you, to coach you—”

“No, that’s stupid! What’s the _real_ reason?”

“That _is_ the real reason!”

“No, it isn’t! You’re Viktor Nikiforov!” Yuuri throws his hands in the air. “I’m a mediocre skater from Japan who eats too much! You can’t be here to coach me!”

“Medio—you asked me to coach you!” Before Yuuri can point out all the ways in which that statement cannot be true, Viktor closes the distance between them and slides his fingers under Yuuri’s chin. “And what do you mean, mediocre? Do you know who I am?”

“…yes?”

“I, Yuuri, am a five time World Champion, a five time Grand Prix Final gold medalist, a twelve time Russian National Champion, and I won gold three times at the Olympics, and I’m telling you that you have everything you need to win gold. It infuriates me that you haven’t _already_ won gold. Are you telling me I don’t know good skating when I see it?”

“I—I—” God, how is Yuuri supposed to come up with his perfectly reasonable list of ways Viktor is wrong if Viktor keeps standing so close to him?

“Do you want me to coach you or not?”

 _No,_ Yuuri thinks, but whatever insanity Viktor brought with him from Russia must be contagious, because what comes out of his mouth is, “Yes!”

“Great!” Viktor beams. “I’ll start choreographing your short program tomorrow! And in the meantime, you should lose a few pounds, because you’re not allowed to skate until you’re back at your competition weight!”

He kisses Yuuri on the mouth with blinding speed. “Okay?”

Yuuri nods.

Then he makes a strategic retreat, and by ‘strategic retreat’ he means he grabs Makkachin and flees.

 _Oh my god,_ he thinks. _He’s here to be my coach? He came from Russia to coach me and I accidentally fucked him? What the hell is happening?_

His heart is pounding. Yuuri buries his flushed face in Makkachin’s fur, just like he used to do with Vicchan. He can’t believe any of this is happening.

He’s happy.

**Author's Note:**

> and they proceeded just as they did in canon, only with intermittent bouts of mutual pining sex.


End file.
